


Cube Escape: Theatre; No, Really, What's Going On In Here?

by The_narwhals_awaken



Series: Rusty Lake: Perspective [9]
Category: Rusty Lake | Cube Escape (Video Games)
Genre: Game: Cube Escape: Theatre, Gen, It Doesn't Work But Still, Minor Gun Violence, but still not really fun, less murdery than most of these games, suicide warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:27:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_narwhals_awaken/pseuds/The_narwhals_awaken
Summary: Dale Vandermeer continues his journey, this time, stopping an a mysterious theatre.  In it, he will come to several conclusions, learn several things, and long for the bottles of alcohol waiting at the bar that he cannot have.
Series: Rusty Lake: Perspective [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946701
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Cube Escape: Theatre; No, Really, What's Going On In Here?

The void has shifted colors, bleeding pink. Dale Vandermeer continued his rise through the void in the elevator, watching the cubes float by. The lake was changing his memories, and he was flickering more. It was almost as if he wasn’t sure if he was Dale or a shadowy figure, who he was anymore. He could remember his birthday party being shot up, but also his grandfather shooting the rabbit man before he could shoot. Dale shivered, his past wasn’t what it had been. Looking back, he could feel memories doubling over themselves, and others simply disappearing. But he couldn’t figure out what he was losing. The cubes had yet to lead him to his death, so he would let them guide him- as he made that decision, something seemed to settle around him. 

The elevator slowed, and the grate opened. Three cubes drifted past him, then one slowed, centering itself before the open grate. Reaching out, Dale poked it. Numbers splayed themselves above the suddenly-pink face- 1971. The world went black. 

When Dale awoke, he was in a new place, somewhere he hadn’t been- so this wasn’t his memory. The walls were pink, two-toned wallpaper solidifying the space in the odd formless way of some old buildings. A potted plant sat in the corner, bland and unprepossessing like all those plants were. Three odd pictures hung on the walls- piano keys, a cocktail recipe, and an odd wheel. A projector sat, waiting on its tripod to be plugged in and lit, while on a low table next to it, a folded paper sat. Filling the last slot, a door marked W.C. sat there, locked for now. Dale picked up the paper- a program, seven items in a row. 

Turning, Dale saw a stage, the curtains closed for now, and six spotlights waiting to be lit. It seemed to hum, waiting, full of power. 

Turning a second time, Dale saw a bar. Somebody was slumped there, half-drunk and vaguely familiar. Behind the bar was an odd man, half-familiar, half-not. He reminded Dale of the odd crow ferryman, Mr. Crow, but different. Something was present in Mr. Crow that was absent from this man, or perhaps absent in Mr. Crow and present in this man. Dale decided to call him the Bartender. 

The Bartender told him to give the man a drink. Dale turned to the side, confused- wasn’t that the bartender’s job?- but did as he was told. Sitting next to the six bottles of alcohol was a cocktail shaker and a cocktail glass. On the wall were instructions for a screwdriver cocktail- two shots of vodka, and two of orange juice. Dale poured the drinks, shook the shaker, then poured. Funnily enough, the orange juice didn’t seem to disappear. He couldn’t tell for the vodka, as it was in a metal flask, but he suspected it was the same. Turning, he gave the drink to the man- almost dropping it in shock, as this was Robert Hill, who was the boyfriend of the murdered woman, Laura Vanderboom. He had a picture tucked in his pocket, but Dale couldn’t get a good look at it from where he was. Bob opened his mouth, and a screwdriver came out. Which- at least it was consistent, unlike Mr. Crow’s first appearance. And how inured to this chaos was he, that he was more interested in the consistency rather than the casual breaking of the laws of reality? Dale shrugged, pushing the issue aside.

Turning a third time, Dale saw six pictures on the wall, or really, five pictures and a mirror. There was also a grand piano and an odd puzzle cabinet, with sliding boards. Carefully and patiently, Dale slid layer after layer aside. Inside the cabinet was a plug and a toilet plunger, thankfully, a clean one. 

Dale took the plug and attached it to the end of the spotlight’s cord with the screwdriver, plugging it in and turning to see the curtains open as the show began. A man stood on stage, stocky, with greying skin and a completely bald head. He also had a parrot perched on one shoulder and an owl mask on his face. He began to speak.  _ Welcome to the theatre of your mind. My name is Mr. Owl, and this evening I present to you 6 plays...about the past, the present, and the future. It’s showtime! _ Applause surrounded Dale as the curtains shut, despite the only other person there being Bob and the bartender. 

Offstage, Mr. Owl’s voice declared this play was entitled The Lady Of The Lake, like that painting Dale had found. Onstage, a woman with dark hair stood, dressed in a blue dress. The woman opened her mouth and began to sing. She sang for a time, and was quite good at it- until a line of red crossed her throat, and her song was cut off by a gurgle as she fell- and was promptly removed from the stage. Stepping back from her was- the same woman? Perhaps- a woman, with goggles over her eyes, dressed in dark clothing. Four baskets lowered, one with a hat. Dale took the hat as the woman directed him to balance the substances of her past lives, her voice echoing and vague. 

Stumped, Dale turned to the bartender- who asked if he could play the piano. Not well, but Dale knew the basics- knew enough not to make a fool of himself if he had to explain it to another. Written on the piano were the words, dead face. Those were notes on the piano, and neatly, Dale poked each one in order. Several piano keys fell down into the void where the keys were extended over, and a hand emerged. It played several patterns, which Dale copied one at a time, before descending again. Just as Dale was going to turn away, the hand rose again, this time giving Dale a key- as if he’d passed a test, and something deep inside Dale seemed to agree. Shaken, Dale turned away.

The only thing locked that Dale could see was the water closet, which seemed odd for the kind of things he’d been facing recently. He entered carefully, but nothing seemed off. He looked at himself in the mirror, noticing that his beard had grown back, and that the grey at his temples was looking more and more white. Then his image distorted, strips sliding back and forth. Frowning, Dale reached out and slid them back into alignment, only to be startled when his reflection was replaced with a black fuzzy figure, eyes the only part that broke the blackness- and those a pure, unnatural white. Dale was shaken- what was happening to him? The mirror cracked, and two of the shards fell down- revealing a pattern. Square, butterfly, target, crosshairs. He pulled back, checking out the rest of the water closet. On the sink was a cocktail glass, and under the sink wasn’t the cleaners he’d expect- oh no, instead there was a single human heart, cool and dry yet full of the feeling that it could easily start pumping at any second. He looked at the toilet, shaking his head. Was this necessary? Apparently, yes, it was. Taking a deep breath, Dale steeled himself, before shoving the plunger into the toilet. His fears were confirmed when instead of anything he’d expect, he pulled out a fetus- already capable of independent movement, but still critically underdeveloped. 

Dale shoved all his worries aside, resolving that when he got back to the elevator to have a good, proper freak-out, the likes he hadn’t had for ages. He turned back to the puzzle cabinet, putting in the symbols from the bathroom mirror, and finding a shell on the right-side door. He put each item- the heart, the hat, the fetus, and the shell- in its proper basket, then stepped back as the woman opened her mouth. A ray of light beamed to her suddenly-open mouth, and a flower bloomed from there. He took the flower, then stepped back once more as the curtains closed. Applause rang out as the first spotlight flicked on, red light gleaming. 

Mr. Owl’s voice rang out again, declaring the next play to be The Signs. It was simple, merely moving pieces around to create the correct configuration of images. Dale sank into the simple task of moving the metal pieces around, using the texture of the metal on his hands to help push away his freak-out until he was no longer in a possibly hostile problem-solving area, and maybe had some of that alcohol. For a moment, as he slid the last piece into its spot, the background flashed into a red-splattered forest, but that faded quickly. Returning to the puzzle cabinet, he put in those symbols- closed crosshairs, open crosshairs, cube, inverted triangle and line- and discovered a recipe for a Harvey Wallbanger. As he turned back, the curtains slid closed to applause and an orange light flickered on. 

The curtains opened once more, to Mr. Owl declaring the next play to be The Fish And The Parrot. A mess of pipes was on stage, some grey and fixed, others yellow and rotating. A fish was dangling on one pipe, a frying pan below it. A large, yellow pot was next to it, another pipe opening over it. Dale put the flower in the pot, where it rooted itself firmly. A parrot was sitting on a perch, with its beak in one of the pipes. 

First, Dale moved the pipes so that the faucet and the pot were connected, then turned on the taps. The flower shifted, and dropped flowers when he poked it. Taking them, Dale moved the pipes so that one of the funnels on top was connected to the parrot, then poured the seeds in. Once they reached their target, the bird squawked, laying a black speckled egg. The egg, after some more tinkering, fell into the frying pan, and a worm crawled out. The worm was fed, after yet more tinkering, to the fish, which floated up and off the edge of the stage. The curtains closed, to another round of applause, and a blue spotlight flickered on.

Mr. Owl’s voice declared the next play to be An Intermezzo: By Mr. Crow, and the curtains opened to a man, well-dressed with a crow mask on, standing on stage with a cane, and three lightbulbs. Dale was delivered a small panel, with buttons: 1, 2, and 3. 

At first, Mr. Crow raised fingers to show Dale which button he should press, lighting each bulb in order. He gave a quick shuffle, then switched to tapping his cane. Once he’d finished that sequence, he shuffled again, then the eye of his crow mask moved to each bulb. As he finished the sequence, he shuffled once more, and beckoned Dale closer. As he stood, Mr. Crow declared, “You know what to do”, in a voice like that of the bartender, before the curtains closed and a purple-pink spotlight lit. 

The next play, according to Mr. Owl, was called Remember The Seasons. The curtains opened to Laura standing there, a tree, a moon, and a windowframe ready to be moved. Laura was still, frozen, like she was merely an image, but something about her seemed to state that she was alive. Her eyes were closed, but she still seemed somewhat alert. 

Dale turned back to the bar, ready to steal some of the alcohol and freak out in the water closet. The bartender- was he Mr. Crow? A mirror? A fragment?- implied that Bob could use another drink, and so he set to doing the bartender’s job. Taking the recipe he’d had from the puzzle cabinet, Dale made a Harvey Wallbanger, nicking the photo of Laura from Bob’s pocket as he did so. It seemed that it was what the stage should look like. On the back, a note was from Laura, apologizing for the separation- and hinting at another life. Something shivered at that, the tales of what happened to that old family- all of them dead but one, so said his grandfather- that Laura reminded him of. 

Drink left on the countertop, Dale moved the frame, tree, and moon, stepping back as they shifted those last few inches. Up close, Laura was still warm, like she was alive. She lifted a hand as if she was waving, eyes still closed. Five smaller frames lowered, and Dale stepped back, going to give Bob his drink. He shifted back as Bob, stone-faced, pounded his head against the bar’s surface until his forehead bled, catching the blood in the spare cocktail glass. Some distant part of his brain was screaming that that wasn’t normal, but it seemed to be drowning, pushed aside both by Dale’s determination to stay not freaking out, and by something else- something which had been building since he’d walked into that house, or even since he’d taken Case 23.

Carefully, using the blood as well as the tabasco and vodka, Dale made a Bloody Mary for Bob. The third and final drink for the night, Bob downed the oddly red liquid easily, like there was nothing inside him to get in the way. He reached inside his coat pocket, and something inside Dale started ringing alarm bells. When Bob pulled out a small handgun, those alarm bells started pealing- but he seemed frozen, like he was pressed under gallons and gallons of water, crushing him on all sides yet keeping him upright as the floor seemed to vanish- as Bob raised the gun to his head and fired. After he had fired, the hole simply sat there, the bullet having passed clean through, and Dale leaned in. Poking through what seemed to be Bob’s brain, Dale found four white cubes, then leaned back.

Turning back to the stage, he put one cube in each of four of the five frames. Each frame held an image, a part of the scene, and Dale locked them into their matching places. He leaned closer, finding a number and symbol in each frame, then turned back to Bob. In his brain? Wherever that space was, there was a solid door, locked with a combination lock. Dale used the numbers from the symbols to unlock the door, passing through it to a space, cold and blue, where a black cube waited. Taking the cube, he exited, placing the cube in the last frame, where it showed Laura’s face. He moved it there, then felt pressed back as Laura’s eyes opened and she screamed, her throat being slit. Laura’s body collapsed, finding itself in the same position he’d originally found it, and the curtains closed to applause, a white spotlight flicking on.

The sixth and final play was called The Mill. The curtains opened to the same man, once Mr. Owl, wearing a mask of his own face. The bird was still on his shoulder. He asked if he was ready for the final play, then declared that his memories belonged to the lake now. If that was him- Dale cut that off, feeling the pressure of the water lessen. Whether it was or not, he was pushing that off until he was back in the elevator, maybe with a stolen bottle of alcohol or three. The man wasn’t done, though, stating that extraction of memories caused corrupted souls- is that what they were called? Apparently, it was one of the six stages of the Wheel, whatever that was. Behind the man, a set dropped down, a windmill in the middle of two bodies of water. One, fresh and blue, the other, dirty and red. Part of him longed for the clean, uncomplicated blue water, but another part rumbled in contentment at the red water.

The blades of the mill were six different colors, each with a different Sanskrit phrase on them. Dale took a step back, turning around the world. The sixth spotlight had lit, turning yellow. Along the wall with the piano, the spotlights were on the pictures. The picture next to the water closet had six sections, each matching one of the pictures on the wall. So the spotlight was the color, and the images showed the order! However, something was off. 

Bob was sitting on the toilet in the water closet, head down. Despite the strong feeling of deja vu that pose caused, Dale stepped forwards, trying to help. As he did so, however, Bob’s head snapped up, startling Dale into taking a step back. His face quickly turned pitch-black, with white circles where his eyes had been. The corruption spread down his body, until he was entirely corrupted- just as he’d been in the interrogation room. 

When Dale’s eyes cleared, the door to the water closet was closed. One of the pilsners on the bar read,  _ I feel dead inside. Why did you take my memory? _ Dale wondered if opening that door was the right thing to do, and if Bob was alright, but something about the mill and the red water called to him, shoving aside the other concerns he had.

Dale slid each of the blades into place, and when they were in their proper places, a beam of light shot up out of the mill, and the blades began to rotate. The set rose into the upper spaces of the stage, and he turned back to the man. He told Dale that his mind was reaching a higher state of consciousness. That he was learning about his past and his future, and what he may become. Something settled in Dale at that, the knowledge that he was far too far in to ever be able to leave. If he refused to press forwards, he’d be a corrupted soul, if he chose to press forwards, he might be something more- or perhaps he’d fail, and end up utterly destroyed. 

The man told him to continue his journey, and an elevator slid onstage. Dale stepped in, sending a longing look towards the bar, and turned to look back at the room as the grate closed and he began to rise. The room seemed to dim as a corrupted soul- formerly-Bob, or somebody else?- stepped out, staring at him as though he had all the answers. 

The elevator returned to the pinkening void, fewer cubes now, as Dale finally let all that he’d seen loose, curling up for who knows how long in one corner of the elevator. Eventually, he pulled himself together, more stable now that he’d let all that loose, and returned to waiting for whatever would happen next. 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is up, and next up is Roots! Roots will be posted, each level as a chapter, numbered as the website has it, and updated as I feel like it. Some effort will be made to post chapters in chronological order, so it makes sense, but I can only adhere to a consistent timeline as much as the game does. Since it's going to be a bit, I'd like to hear what you think: the secret bonus level as chapter one, or put it at the end?
> 
> Thanks for reading, leave a comment and/or a kudo if you appreciated!


End file.
